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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27137116">Get Lost In The Moment</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nixie_DeAngel/pseuds/Nixie_DeAngel'>Nixie_DeAngel</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Dudley and Harry reconnecting, Dudley gets a redemption, F/M, Family, Fluff, Happy, Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Love, Panic Attacks, Patil Family - Freeform, Post-Canon, Slow-ish burn, Tags will be adjusted as new chapters go up</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 20:34:38</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,022</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27137116</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nixie_DeAngel/pseuds/Nixie_DeAngel</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Swallowing again, he takes a deep breath, releasing it slowly, and gets up and goes home. Spends the entire night, wide awake and staring at the ceiling, debating with himself about what to do. Then the next day and the day following it too. It goes on for nearly a week, before something finally cracks, breaks beneath his skin, and resettles into something harder, something infinitely different to what he’d been raised to be. </p><p>Or, Dudley gets away from his parents, discovers who he is and falls in love with a witch along the way.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dudley Dursley/Padma Patil</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Get Lost In The Moment</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/queerghostie/gifts">queerghostie</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I feel like I should preface this by the fact, I have no idea if this thing will actually be five chapters or not, we'll find out as I go. Also, there will be no schedule, because I've never in my life been able to follow one. </p><p>I hope you all enjoy this angsty ride to a happy ending for Dudley.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s after they’d moved away from Surrey, away from everything he’s ever known, only to shuffle back months later, Dudley decides he’s had enough. Enough of his mother’s snide remarks, covered by overly sweet words, and grand gestures of bought love and acceptance. That he’d grown so </span>
  <em>
    <span>tired</span>
  </em>
  <span> of his dad, and his barely concealed disappointment he couldn’t get into Uni, that he had no proper plans, no goals, no wants like Vernon Dursley clearly expected of his only child. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So when he goes to fetch the post, he finds the letter, only addressed to the relatives of one Edith Dursley, someone he’s never heard of before. A burning, needing, curiosity crawling buzzes underneath his skin. So he pinches the letter for himself. He drops the rest of it on the table before shuffling into his jumper and slipping out the door. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His first stop is to the local library, to look up who Edith Dursley even is. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It takes roughly an hour or so, before he finds out this Edith, this unknown woman, turns out she’s his Gran’s sister. She’d moved up to Whitby about 50 years past he reads, squinting at the screen a little. Apparently, she’d stayed there until her death, just some weeks ago. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Huh, he thinks, staring down at the letter for a beat, before opening it to read. And… and stares for a long moment. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s an inheritance. To any living Dursley relative wanting to claim, as long as they contact the executor before the 30th of November. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Swallowing, he stares, hands shaking and thinks, thinks this could be it, this could be his escape. His way out and away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A chance, <em>his</em> chance, at a </span>
  <em>
    <span>real</span>
  </em>
  <span> clean break from his parents, his past. A true fresh start. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His chance to find out who </span>
  <em>
    <span>he</span>
  </em>
  <span> is, without all of his parents’ expectations. Without all their influences. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Swallowing again, he takes a deep breath, releasing it slowly, and gets up and goes home. Spends the entire night, wide awake and staring at the ceiling, debating with himself about what to do. Then the next day and the day following it too. </span>
  <span>It goes on for nearly a week, before something finally cracks, breaks beneath his skin, and resettles into something harder, something infinitely different to what he’d been raised to be. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The next morning, he calls the number attached to the letter, makes arrangements to head up to Whitby, to meet with the Solicitor — a man by the name of Patil. Afterwards, he immediately begins going through his room. Makes himself pack up the important stuff. Makes himself figure out what </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s a little bewildered, a little shocked it doesn’t take more than a few hours to get himself squared away. Dropping onto his bed, he stares at his shaking hands and wonders why it’s not taken him longer, why it was so easy to pack the </span>
  <em>
    <span>few</span>
  </em>
  <span> important bits of his life up, along with clothes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>God, he thinks faintly. It took him longer to pack his clothing, than it did to make sure he nabbed the one family photo he had, of just him and Harry, when they were teens. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He remembers, faintly, the day it’d been taken. Candice, a girl from down the street from them, had gone through a phase of wanting to be a famous photographer, and had spent the whole summer break snapping photos of everything and everyone she could. He and Harry had been sitting side by side, laughing about </span>
  <em>
    <span>something</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Dudley can’t even remember what, but it’d probably been one of the </span>
  <em>
    <span>far too few</span>
  </em>
  <span> times he and his cousin had gotten along, and had spent time as family. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The other photo he’d grabbed was one of him as a toddler, sleeping in his mother’s arms. He can’t help tracing it with his fingertip, before making sure it was placed with the one of him and Harry. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The only other thing he owned, that he needed to ensure came with him, was a book he’d nicked from Harry’s things, before he’d sent the Dursley’s off, to keep them safe. He doesn’t know what it is, something about Hogwarts History, the cover says. But he doesn’t really get it, understand what it means, the history it contains in its pages. Dudley usually just cracks it open the few nights he had trouble falling asleep himself. It was the quickest way to get him to knock right out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Three things. Eighteen years, and only three things in the entire world were all that truly mattered to him. He wonders how selfish it is of him, to feel gutted and hollow. How none of the numerous things he owns, hold any really importance to him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eventually, though, he makes himself get up. He pauses by his desk, and jots down a letter, explaining that he was leaving, that he’d contact them when he was ready. Doesn’t give reasons as to why, just that he </span>
  <em>
    <span>needs</span>
  </em>
  <span> to go, to get away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Afterwards, he tucks the letter somewhere his mum will find it, and heads out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stops at the end of the driveway, duffle slung over his shoulder and stares at his childhood home for a long moment, before pivoting sharply on his heel and heads down to the nearest bus stop, to take him towards the bus station, to take him into London, where he can make his way to King’s Cross. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There he buys a one-way ticket to Grosmont, with two stops along the way. He spends the day traveling, staring at nothing but his perfectly still hands. He wonders when they’d finally stopped shaking. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>By the time he gets to Whitby, it’s nearing evening, much too late to contact the executor of Edith’s will. So, he bumbles his way, asking for directions to the nearest hostel. He’s only a little surprised, and much grateful they’ve got space for him for the night. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s shocked when he wakes the next morning, having slept solidly the entire night. He doesn’t remember the last time he slept like that. Slept so heavy and for the entire night. He grins up at the ceiling, and knows deep within his heart, this is the right path for him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s not made a colossal mistake. That he’s doing what’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>right</span>
  </em>
  <span> for him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You a’ight there, mate?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Turning his head to look at the man sitting in the opposite bunk to him. Dudley can’t help but let a grin, soft chuckle, and nods, “Yeah, yeah I think I am.” Shoving up, he swings his legs over the side. “Finally feel like I am. Ta.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He watches as the stranger — looks to be about his age, maybe a few years older — eyes him, before snorting and nodding. “Okay then. You missed breakfast, by the way. Stopped serving about twenty minutes ago.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, no, I’m good,” he answers after a moment, voice still a touch raspy with sleep. He brings his hands up and scrubs at his face. “Thanks for letting me know,” he adds with a grateful nod. He watches as they nod, before bouncing off their bed, heading towards another group that looks to be heading out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Most likely, Dudley thinks, to see what sights that Whitby holds. It wouldn’t be a bad idea, he decides, to get to know the area, because after all, he plans to make this home for himself. With that, he slips his shoes on and grabs his duffle, heads towards the bathroom, to clean up and change before he heads out to meet with the executor. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It takes a while, first to find a place he can find a quick, cheap breakfast — reminds himself he needs to be more mindful of what he spends from now on. He had had little in the way of savings after all — and most it had already gone to his train ticket to get up here. Maybe he should have waited, saved a little more before coming up North. And then he gets a little lost trying to find Rajan Patil, the Solicitor he’d contacted yesterday. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he stops in the middle of the walkway and just stares, unseeing at nothing, as his brain sort of stutters to a stop. Swallowing thickly, Dudley shuffles himself off to the side, letting his bag drop to the ground, as he follows, sinking quickly to the ground hard. He feels his chest tighten, his breath quicken and his pulse race.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s done this. He’s really done this, hasn’t he?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He feels another one of those hysterical laughs claws up his throat, lets it out and brings a hand up to rub at his eyes. He does his best to try to ignore the sting he feels there. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t know how long he stays there, rocking himself as he tries desperately to get himself under control enough to get up. Eventually, though, he does. He gets his pulse and breath to slow, his chest to not feel as tight. A jittery, itchy feeling settles beneath his skin. He decides for now, it’s a tradeoff he’s willing to deal with. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At least his chest no longer feels like it’s fit to burst open.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you alright, luv?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Moving his hand down enough, he flicks red rim eyes up to spy an older woman, face drawn down into a look of genuine concern. He swallows, eyes her kind, brown eyes and drops his hand fully from his face. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I, I think I will be,” he croaks out, voice as unsteady as he feels. He tries once, then twice to stand up, but it takes this unknown woman’s help to get his feet under him. “Thank you,” he murmurs. “Thank you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is there anyone I can ring for you, dear?” she asks, kindly, only stepping back once he seems to be steady enough not to topple over. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t mean to honestly; he doesn’t mean to bark out a stilted laugh, but he does. He does, and he’s embarrassed because… because, “No, no ma’am. I’ve got no one you can call.” He ducks his head, reaches out with shaky hands and lifts his bag, re-slings it over his shoulder and straightens the best he can. He can still feel a fine tremor running through his body. He wonders how long it’ll be with him, because his body and mind catch up to his heart.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It takes a few seconds, but eventually makes himself raise his eyes, meets her gaze and feels his face flush at the sorrow he can read in her eyes. He ducks his head back down again. “Thank you, for, um,” he flaps his hand about, no actual idea what words to use here. “Thank you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stands there, awkwardly, waiting for her to walk off, but she doesn’t, and after a pause he flicks his gaze up, looking at her from beneath his lashes. He watches the way her lips purse, before glancing down at her watch, her shoulders dropping. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If I didn’t need to be at Lufkin’s, dear, I’d insist you let me take you to Trenchers to get a cuppa, but I can’t, so I’ll take you at your word.” As she speaks, she slips a card out and hands it to him, makes sure he pockets it as well before she carries on, “Now, you’ve got someone you can ring.” She gives him a smile, before apologizing about needing to run off so quick.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dudley, Dudley doesn’t really know what to do, as he watches the woman, far too kind, far too concerned about an absolute stranger, rush off to continue on with her day. Slipping the card back out, he reads the name, Binita Patil, Doctor of medicine, head surgeon at Artemisia Lufkin Memorial Hospital. He stares at it, debates about just chucking it, instead of keeping it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe it’s because her last name is Patil, like the Solicitor he’s supposed to meet today. He doesn’t know why; he slips it back into his pocket. Tightening his grip in the strap of his bag, he makes himself take a step, then another and another, walking back down the street towards Queen St.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I'm Nixie! You can find me where I post the things I <a href="https://nixies-creations.tumblr.com/">create</a>, or at my main blog <a href="http://nixie-deangel.tumblr.com/">here</a>!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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